Volume 5
by LoudCloud
Summary: In which the Fifth Guest arrives. "I guess I should've warned you – you do look a bit of sight."
1. Chapter 1

_This idea came to me after re-watching The Gregory Horror Show. A few questions. A few eerie ideas...Thing is, I made this writing more...simplistic than I usually do, but its for a reason. Bear with me? I can change it later on._

* * *

A darkened reception. Lamps hanging over a rotting overhang. Between the creaking hooks lay a squat double door. The door encrusted in a house, the house flanked by a forest that went on forever, under a dank, starless sky. Walking to the door.

They open without the coaxing of hands.

"...Ever since that day, I've not been myself. But – where am I? Why am I wandering through a forest?"

"...Hello?"

Faintly, though it could be one's imagination, a cry wanders through the trees.

The world changes through the door. The cold is gone, but it isn't exactly replaced by warmth. Just a lack of chill. Enclosed space, the quiet – the kind of quiet that hovers in funeral homes, waiting rooms, a house whose owner has only just left. Between hush and silence. A candle lay on an old fashioned holder, hook and all. One had to wonder where such a typical looking prop came from...open book bigger than half one's body.

 _Bam._

 _HEAtbEAT races –_

"Oh, I'm so sorry, chum." A crooning voice, with a subtle hint of age, leering. Droopy, unfocused eyes somehow latching. Big ears, red eyes. The mouse's nose twitches, smiling smoothly. It doesn't do well on a crooked snout. "You were so quiet, there. Could've been a mouse." He turns, but remains watching, sliding behind the desk and draping a heavy arm over the book.

"You say you're tired? Never met someone so eager. Are you quite alright, friend? You look a little jittery. Perhaps some rest _is_ needed." He scoops up the candle, and his eyes never leave ,ever waver as he moves to the side. Head turns to follow him, uneasily.

"Don't worry, my friend. Come along..." He jingles a set of keys. Hadn't seen him pick them up. He asks no name, writes nothing down, but begins moseying forward. Following now, candlelight sways. The sound of footsteps are the only thing that makes it into the air, but it doesn't break the silence so much as tiptoes around it.

Down a hall. Rainwater dripping from a faded red raincoat.

"You're like a drowned rat. Here, let me take that for you –" The mouse reaches. Then quirks a brow. "No? Very well." He smiles, again, eyelids narrowing. "I'll give you your space..." He holds out the candle, gesturing to a room.

The door is already open. No creak. One step, two step, inside. Nice bed, alluringly soft blanket, plain pillow. The window shutters are wood and thicker than one's hands.

"I would keep those shut, nasty rain out there, my friend..." The mouse calls, with the air of a man speaking spooky tales. Yet no rainwater is heard. A desk, with...

Step away. The mouse draws near, eyeing between dampened, dripping hair and a small, dusty hand mirror, colourful. Painted childishly.

"I guess I should've warned you – you _do_ look a bit of _sight_." He chuckles, inwardly. Chill up the spine. "I'll take it away..."

He pockets the mirror and begins moving away, back stooped. "You get some sleep now, friend. You are so very tired."

The bed creaks under the weight, creasing fabric. The mouse turns back between the doorway, hand on the frame, head tilting gently. "Goodnight..." He murmurs, in a sing-song voice, soft as it is...something else...

The door shuts, candlelight cut away. Darkness.

The pillow cradles the head, blanket wrapped around the body. The faint scent of cookies, freshly clean cloth, yet dust, also...

Sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

"I didn't think twice about it. But...why would I? No harm done..."

The state between sleep and wakefulness is a hazy one. Whether one is cosy in a four poster bed or slung beneath a cardboard box, it is the most comfortable place in the world during that small period of time. Warmth, warm blankets, but the body is stiff. A shift breaks the silence, eyes focus. A beam of light, murky and dim, peers at the bed-frame from beneath the single door.

Blankets drawn aside. Feet on the floor. Don't remember removing boots, or socks, for that matter. They linger in the corner, dripping still.

As if seeing the occupant stir, the old fashioned lamps ignite, slowly, into being. Wandering over to the door. Creaking open, just a tad. Empty hallway fading into darkness on either side. Glum wall, faded carpet.

One's shadow basks on the wall, watching.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Bare feet against the thin carpet. Air sucked in through teeth...

 _Slice –_

 _Hammering heart._ The world swerves; someone looms, black face, red against that darkness, yet white sandwiching the two. The hallway blurs again, tap, tap, tap, running faster down the hall, around the corner. Huffing...

Turn left, there it is again, dark being clad in white. A giant knife, catching the light, arms fly up to defend, though it would probably carve right though the bone if it wanted to...

But then, a tray. The figure is holding it out with his other hand, circular eyes bright and expectant. The smell if ravishing, mouth-watering, and...familiar. A gasp sounds next. Blackcurrant sugar tarts! A...childhood favourite...

It had been so long.

A hand reaches and plucks one up, and Hell's Chef tilts the knife to where the lips should be, making a shushing noise. A knowing sound. They taste as good as the memory, sweet and tangy with blackcurrant juice, and chewy crust. The chef offers more, and the hand collects as many as they can carry.

"Fine cuisine." The Chef remarks, nodding importantly, before ambling off with the empty tray overhead. The candle doesn't light his way, however, and he disappears into the shadowy hall ahead.

Slinking back to the room now, arms full, holding the warmth to one's chest as the door is open and closed delicately, so no one will hear.

 _"Blackcurrant tarts?"_ A surprised, reproachful voice chimes.

 _Spin._

The mouse is sitting at the desk, chair and all, reading glasses and book sitting on nose and lap. He cocks his heavy head to one side, buggy eyes glinting with malice...and something else, some kind of mirthless emotion lost on one's knowledge. "Haven't seen those made around here in a while. Kinda tacky, don't you think, my friend? Pretty sneaky of you, too. There ARE other guests."

It's hard to think of others when you don't see them around. Assuming things is easy.

"What? You thought they were all for you? Greedy you." The mouse slides off the chair and saunters by, swallowing a cackle. Twist in the chest. "Me? No I don't want one, my friend. Don't guilt yourself. I lost my appetite for tarts long ago..."

He's in the doorway again; hand on the tin knob, really to pull. "But next time...how about some consideration? You wouldn't want to be _unpopular_ , would you?"

The door closes.


	3. Chapter 3

"...I always hated needles, ever since I was a child. I never understood why...I don't recall much of that time."

Little nicely dressed beings are ambling around outside the door, with button-up robes and faces darker than midnight. They're dusting up some oddly coloured glass, shattered against the floor. A fading pink hue glimmers in the lamp light. Through the tiny crack between the barely open door and its frame, it was easy to see goings-on without being seen in return.

The door opens completely when they go. Shadow moves along, hands up, as if to creep, rat to cheese. Tip-toeing along –

A hiss. Twisting around a leg to try and access the damage; tiny pink shard punctuating the bare flesh. Forgot the boots, of course. The little nick is bleeding slowly but surely, thick drops clashing terribly with the faded cherry carpet. "...!"

A titter sounds by the ear. Spinning around, a common feat these days – hours? – and there is the mouse, shaking his heavy head from side to side. "My, my, that looks painful. You really ought to be more careful. Here, I know someone who can fix that right up."

The shard of glass has been pulled away but the bleeding continues. The mouse gestures lightly towards an ashen face, and the following begins again. The halls stretch on, and the pain only gets worse. Everything juts up and down due to the limp, doors bob, lamps blur.

The mouse looks over his shoulder, quizzical. "You know...you remind me of someone. Oh? You thought I'd tell you? Nosy, aren't we?"

More walking. Around the corner.

"My name?" A mock gasp of horror, "Silly me! I mustn't have told you. My name is Gregory, your host." He smiles back, eyes broadening if a little. He stops at a door, housing the numbers 209. "I would ask you your name, but I don't think you remember, do you?" He chortles, slowly, and it quickens as he grasps the handle.

Creak, and it opens.

The scent is overwhelming, terribly, familiar. A sharp turn, heel squeaking against the floor. Air, stale and windless, rushing in sticky-out ears as the halls fly by –

"Come back! H-hey!"

Not as cocky or crooning as before, the mouse is calling, loudly. Back around the corner, onward, onward, to the open room door...but logically, if one was being followed, the assigned room would be the first place they'd look. How did they know something bad was going to happen? They'd seen a hospital cramped into one room, a green curtain, needles bigger than their body hung on the wall like trophies. Familiar.

The door is closed, slammed harder than necessary, but the occupant hasn't ventured inside. Instead the silent footsteps continue around the next corner, a back presses against the wall and waits. Eying the lines of doors to keep the mind quiet, ignore the hammering heart.

The voices come, and draw closer.

"I must apologise for the nasty fright, I didn't prepare him well enough..."

"Hmm, the surprise always gets the blood pumping..." A sultry voice purrs, overly enthusiastic, so much so it sends a chill through one's bones. Too much, too much enjoyment, when nothing is happening. The room door opens, the mouse is going inside, and it's obvious by the way the footsteps drag lightly across the carpet.

"There, now, my friend, there's no need to...huh?! Where -?!"

"Omm, what a shame." The voice hums, breathy, horrible, moving towards the other voice's location, "But then who will...relieve this needle lf of its sweet healing properties."

"Ni-ni-ni-no, Not me, I don't – ack!"

The mouse burst from the room and speed – blessedly –down the opposite hall, and the pink shape follows, cackling loudly, laughter punctuating ever breath. Sore feet carry a shivering body back into the room and close the door, the chair is wrenched under the handle. The blankets make for shabby protection. The shivering doesn't stop.

The scent of the medical ward had been oh-so familiar, and an experience one would always avoid.


	4. Chapter 4

"...I...should be trying to get home, but...since that day, my drive to do anything much at all has been...lessening."

The chair is taken away from the door after a while. The tarts, tucked neatly away in the drawer, are going a bit stale, but they're good just the same. Outside, the corridor is the same as it was before, but a clean check for any remaining glass shards never hurt anyone. Through the hallway, noting each lamp and door, listening for any indication of another guest. There are none.

There. At the bottom of the hall, the outline of another mouse stands, cigarette in hand, tall ears blocking out the wall light. The mouse turns eyelash-flanked eyes to the dishevelled figure a few meters away from them, exhales smoke through their lips, and moves away.

There's no following this time. Footsteps ring through the hall to the right, not the left, the way the female mouse had gone. The reception again. The first mouse, the old one – Gregory is sitting quietly at the desk, glasses poised on a lank nose and humming absently to himself.

He glances up. "Oh, hello there...I apologise for last night. How's your foot?"

The question isn't answered. Then, the mouse is surprised by the inquiry that comes to him. "Hmm? What am I reading? Oh..." He seems taken back, but elaborates all the same, "Well, just some drama nonsense, a guilty pleasure if you will. Like one of those soap operas, really – a man's life not going too well, running from problems. Something tells me you would like to read it..."

He's smirking, eyes narrowed, that clever chortle ready to rumble in his decrepit chest. But then his posture changes. Purple eyes blink. "H-huh...you would like to read it? W-well, I'll be sure to hand it to you when I'm done. Seems we have a lot in common, my friend."

Head turns, body pivots, back to the room. The bed covers aren't welcomed, neither is the patron. Ear muffled against pillow, mind blank. Staring at the desk, the tightly sealed shutters.

The urge to escape is a fickle thing. By now it's obvious that this world is no ordinary dream, for it has been going on too long and there's only so much a person can say to reason it away. The bed crackles as the body turns to face the wall.

The door wasn't closed properly. Then, a voice drifts by.

"Do you know...?"

The bed creaks.

"Who I am...?"

The door opens a tad more, nose poking out, attentive. All the lamps dotting the hallway – all of them were out. The scent of snuffed out candlewicks still linger in the air. A new glow is brimming in the far corridor, drawing nearer, steadily, like quiet train lights...

A being slides by, grating the ceiling like a crane on a rail. Two cages hanging on arms like scales; weighing a heart, and a money sign. Bright colours, black outlines around dot eyes. Sharp teeth flashing as the lipless mouth moves, repeating the words that a more of a chant than an actual tune –

"Do you know, who I am, they call me Judgement Boy..."

And he goes by. A he, judging by that voice. Vanishing into the hall opposite, into the darkness. Again, the lights do nothing to light the way ahead. It swallows him up.

"It isn't polite to stare." Slimy voice.

There's Gregory, book tucked under one arm, candle holder poised in the other. He's smiling that seedy grin again, moving closer. The door creaks again, the gap between the frame shrinking. The mouse chuckles again, "Oh? Don't be afraid, friend. Here..." He holds out the book.

A clammy hand reaches, and takes it. It smell of dust and it's worn like the books in many a second hand library.

"I hope you enjoy it, my friend. You look like you need a distraction..hmhmhm."

And he ambles off, rickety laughter ringing in smaller ears.


End file.
